


There is no sin except stupidity

by Jaelijn



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Abusive Parents, Brotherly Love, Bullying, Gen, Insults, Mycroft's POV, POV First Person, backdated work, not between the brothers but just as a warning, nothing explicit but I tend to allude to it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-02
Updated: 2010-08-02
Packaged: 2018-09-18 14:08:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9388643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: Someone talks badly about Holmes in Mycroft's presence. The older brother can't allow such a thing! Mycroft kicks metaphorical ass.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have hereby started migrating my old Holmesian fic from my LJ days to AO3. I do very little editing to these, and will also backdate them to when they originally came out. I fancy I am now a better writer, but for the sake of the "archive" element of AO3, and because I am still fond of these works, here you are. 
> 
> Original Author's Note: Title of a quote by Oscar Wilde, from “The Critic as Artist”, Mycroft's POV, written for the shkinkmeme (LJ) (summary is the original prompt, [here](http://shkinkmeme.livejournal.com/5516.html?thread=8974988)) and filling my "bullying" square in the hc_bingo (LJ) card.

I have always been able to read my brother's mood, even as he learned to hide it from Father. His face would be set in stone, even as a child, but there was always something – the set of his shoulders, a tell-tale glimmering in his eyes that told me as loudly as words that he was upset, or unwell.

After our father's death and especially since we were both residing in London, and Sherlock has taken up his curious line of profession, I have seen those signs only seldom, and since Dr Watson has become my brother's constant companion, they have disappeared almost completely.

I was glad for my brother, or course. Years ago, at school, he would come to me almost every evening, looking tired and worn with boredom, his shoulders stiff and his head drawn down between them, because his classmates had again seen fit to mock him with whatever poppycock they had told him, or about him. Sherlock never spoke about it, but I always knew, having experienced the relentless bullying myself. I have always had the certainty that I was superior to them in wits, reassured by the gentle support my mother offered me.

Sherlock never knew his mother, and while he had sports to gain some acknowledgement he did not receive for his wit, he always seemed to me to be the more insecure of the two of us.

After all, he had only himself and me to turn to for support.

Therefore, I was bound to notice the signs of that old discomfort all the more quickly when I saw them. Sherlock had come to the club to ask my advice for one of his cases, but when he stepped into the Strangers' Room, there was that particular self-consciousness about his demeanour that I had always associated with the occasions when someone had insulted him, usually behind his back, for they were far too cowardly to face him. Of course Sherlock mentioned none of it, and soon returned to his usual arrogant and aloof self, but I had not failed to notice.

I was able to point out one or two important factors to help my younger brother with his investigation, and promptly accompanied him as he made his was downstairs to leave the club again. Sherlock hastened his exit, and I returned to my armchair in the reading room of the Diogenes, only to observe a group of young men, obviously new to the club, looking after my brother. They stood close to the door – Sherlock had assuredly passed them on his way in. Quite contrary to the rules of the club, they whispered to each other, words too low to distinguish, but I had no doubt as to their subject. Slowly, I rose from my chair and ventured closer.

The two men facing me had spotted my approach, and stilled with an utterly ridiculous expression of shock on their features, while their third companion continued to babble on undisturbed. “At least that infernal Holmes is gone now. The air is the sweeter for his absence. My uncle says he's utterly mad, a nosy stickybeak.”

“Gentlemen,” I said quietly, and motioned them to follow me out into the hallway, closing the door behind us. I was to have a little fun with them for my brother's sake– the pale faces of the two who had apparently realised who I was were almost enough to make up for the disturbance of my blessed silence – but there was no reason why I should violate the rules of the Diogenes myself and risk eviction.

The oblivious one faced me with his nose held so high that it was almost at the back of his head and expression so arrogant and condescending that it made my blood boil. “What do you want with us, sir?” he asked, but his address alone sounded like an insult.

One of his companions shifted uncomfortably from one leg to the other and uttered a warning: “Patterson...”

“You are new to the Diogenes Club, gentlemen?” I asked amiably, using my sweetest smile. “It seems you have not been informed of its rules.”

“Of course we have,” spat Patterson. “We are not as dense, sir...” Apparently, he enjoyed hauling insults at his opponents.

I faced him calmly. No need to let the cat out of the bag just yet. The others' faces were satisfactory enough. “I will not tolerate any conversation, gentlemen, within the rooms of this club, else it be the Strangers' Room. I assure you, if this offence is repeated, I have no compunction of evicting you from the club.”

“And who are you, sir, to be able to decide that? I will not be treated in such a cavalier fashion, sir. I am from an honourable household, sir.”

“Patterson!” His companion clasped his hand around the young upstart's arm. “You are talking to one of the founding members! This is Mr Mycroft Holmes!”

It was a joy to see the colour drain from Patterson's face until he look almost dead on his feet. “Mycroft... Holmes?”

“Quite correct,” said I. “Now I would suggest, sir”, I added, mirroring his own tone back to him, “that you keep your mouth shut ere you can think of something intelligent to say. I shall be informing my brother that he does not need to bother with your case if you come to him in an hour of sore need. After all, you uncle should be able to clear it all up for you – that is the way of honourable households, is it not? Good day to you, gentlemen. ' _There is no sin except stupidity_ ' as Wilde has it. Wouldn't you agree?“


End file.
